


The Birth and Death of the Tennessee Kid

by IronicSnap



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Humor, Origin Story, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronicSnap/pseuds/IronicSnap
Summary: Four vignettes from the life of the legendary Old West outlaw, from the day he first discovered his destiny to the night it all ended.





	1. 1868

_"Please, Denis. Just hear me out."_

_"How many times do I gotta tell you? I don't want no part in the 'family business'. I sell shoes. End of."_

_"I know, I know. And you can sell as many shoes as you please... But how many shoes does William want to sell, huh?"_

_"You leave that boy out of this!"_

_"He's the age I was when Pop gave it to me."_

_"I ain't saying he's too young, I'm saying he's **my** boy! You want an heir so bad, go have your own kid. You ain't stealing mine."_

_"You stubborn idiot, I ain't stealing him! I just wanna talk to him, is all. Let him decide for himself whether he wants to do it. He deserves the option, Denis. He's a natural."_

_"...He is. It tears me up to admit it, but he really is. No doubt about it. He's a Cooper."_

* * *

**_1868, Somewhere in Tennessee_ **

The shoeshop was in town, but only barely. From the front, there was a view of the other small, ramshackle buildings of the settlement. But from the back, the dusty orange plains stretched into the horizon, hardening into dark mountains far, far to the west.

A perfect view for target practice.

A single dingy can sat on the ground. Every day it got a little further away. It had built up quite the distance by now – it stood several meters away, a length roughly three times the width of the house itself.

Standing on the rickety back porch was a raccoon. He was just a kid – it hadn't been long since his eighth birthday. He tossed a small pebble from hand to hand. His lively brown eyes narrowed on the can, his tongue sticking out in concentration.

With a sudden twitch he flung the pebble. The small rock shot through the air and hit the inside lip of the can. The can performed an impressive backflip, kicking up orange dust and clattering back to earth.

The kid jumped, pumping a fist. "Ha **ha!** Yeah!"

"My, my... mighty impressive, Billy."

The kid whirled around. Standing on the porch behind him was a raccoon wearing a red scarf and a long, dark coat, tattered with wear but still sturdy. She grinned at him proudly.

The kid's eyes lit up. "Auntie Suzanne! I didn't hear you there!"

She smirked. "Well, I'm always quiet, ain't I?" She hunkered down, spreading her arms. "C'mere, you bandit!"

He leapt in, hugging her tightly. Laughing, she returned the gesture.

After a few moments, he pulled away –with Suzanne's pistol in his small hands. He looked it over with wonder. "Woah! This here's shinier than a lampshade made a' gold! And I bet it packs a punch, too!"

"Hey, now..." Suzanne snatched it out of his grip and slipped it back in her holster. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Billy. You'll get a gun of your own one day, but not when you're just eight years old. Wait 'til you're a more sensible age. Like twelve."

He tossed his head grumpily. After a moment, he blinked. "Wait. Ain't you mad?"

Suzanne settled into a sitting position, her legs crossed. She gave him a gentle smirk. "'Bout what?"

"I... took that from you. Without asking, I mean." He sat too, his eyes on the horizon. "I'm, um, not 'sposed to do that."

"Is that a fact?" drawled Suzanne. "Your dad say that, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Suzanne's mouth tightened for a moment. Then her smile slid back into place. "He tells me you've been helpin' him with the shop. Growin' boy like you needs to be doin' somethin' with his time. How d'you find the work? You enjoy it?"

"No," he said sullenly, arms folded. "Can't focus on that stuff. I just can't. S'too boring. Can't sit still." He kept his eyes low. "...Pop thinks I'm stupid."

"Does he?" said Suzanne, leaning down. Her tone shifted. "...Does he ever say that to you?"

"Not out loud, but sometimes I feel him thinkin' it."

"I see." A pause. "Well, if your dad _ever_ gives you any trouble, you tell me right away, y'hear?" She brightened. "And I'll come to your house and beat 'im with a stick."

He laughed. "Auntie! You can't do that!"

Suzanne grinned. "I'm his big sister! I can do as I please."

He nodded, his eyes shining. "Heh. I'm pretty sure Pop's scared of you, anyhow."

"For good reason!"

His smile slowly faded. "It'd be real swell if you were 'round more often. If... if you don't mind me asking, where do you go, Auntie? How come you don't live in a town like us?"

Suzanne sighed, settling back slightly. Her dark brown eyes regarded the mountains on the horizon as she spoke. "Well Billy, I don't stay in one place too long. But usually I'm livin' with one of the tribes."

"Out in the wilderness, y'mean?"

"Uh huh." She looked at him. "What d'you know about the tribes, Billy?"

"Not much, Auntie," he said placidly, "mostly on account a' how I dunno much about anything. Oh, they got the bows and arrows, right? They're great! I mean, guns're better, but bows are good too!"

Suzanne laughed. "You got yourself a one-track mind, Billy! Yes, they use bows. Damn fine shots. Learned a lot from 'em, myself." She grew serious. "But life can be real tough out there. They've lost a lot. As a matter of fact, they didn't 'lose' most of it. A lot was taken. Stolen."

"Right..." His ears drooped with sympathy, but then his face hardened. "Wait, wait, wait. Auntie, stop."

She blinked. "Hmm?"

"You're tryin' to make me feel bad, aren'tcha? Pop told you to come out here and give me a _talk_ about how stealing's always wrong." He folded his small arms resolutely. "But I already apologised! He made me! So you don't have come here with some big ol' story 'bout how –"

"Whoa, whoa." She gently held up a hand. "Billy, you lost me. What's this?"

His frown deepened. "I... Couple days ago, Mrs Lamarr – she's the teacher at school – I hate her – she took a book off a' Benjamin – he's a kid in my class – he's nice – 'cause he tried to read it during class. And normally you get stuff like that back at the end of the day, but she read a bit of it and said it wasn't 'appropriate' and wouldn't give it up! He nearly cried! He's nice to me. To everybody! He didn't deserve that."

There was a glint in Suzanne's eye – not that her nephew noticed. "So what did you do?"

"I..." He coughed. "After supper, I snuck out and went into the schoolhouse. It was all locked up, but it wasn't hard to get in. Just climbed up the side and slid down the chimney. Real sooty, but I don't mind getting' dirty. I stole the book and gave it back to Benji."

"Up to the roof, huh? Were you scared?"

"Not hardly!" he declared, pleased with the chance to impress his aunt. "It was easy, all of it. Even the fiddly lock on Mrs Lamarr's desk wasn't any trouble." Arms still folded, he flopped backwards onto his back. "Naw, the only _trouble_ was when she figured out it was me, and told Pop. He was angrier than a... a..." His face scrunched in frustration. "He was real mad!"

Suzanne brought a gloved hand up her mouth to cover her smile. "Well now, Billy. That's quite the story."

He grunted.

"As a matter of fact, your dad didn't send me to talk to you. Actually..." She gave him a full, sly grin. "...he wanted to stop me."

His eyes widened. He sat up, intrigued. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. See, he and I disagree on a few... matters of philosophy. Fr'instance, if you ask me? Stealing isn't always wrong. Not by a long shot. The reason I was telling you about the tribes, and what they lost, is 'cause I was answerin' your question. I spend so long out there 'cause when they lose something important, they ask me to steal it _back_."

By now he was transfixed. "Steal things... back?"

"That's right. The two finest things in life, Billy, are doin' what you love and helpin' others. The absolute best is doin' both at once. And in this family... with a few occasional exceptions," she added with a wink, gesturing inside the shop, "we're real good at _stealing_. So we steal things. And we always steal from bad people. It's more of a challenge! Plus, helpin' folks feels tingly."

"Yeah!" He nodded vigorously. "That's why I didn't wanna apologise to Mrs Lamarr, no matter what Pop said. I knew I was right to help Benji. And it was so **fun!** More exciting than a wheelbarrow ride in a thunderstorm!"

"I'm real glad to hear it, Billy." Suzanne pulled open her coat slightly to access an inner pocket. "Since, as a matter of fact, I have something I wanna give ya."

"Is it a–?"

"No, Billy," said Suzanne firmly, "it ain't a gun."

"Shucks."

"It's something a lot better." She produced it with a dramatic flourish; a book. An old book. Faded and brown, yet possessing a certain rebellious dignity. "Billy, my boy, this here is the most important thing you'll ever own. May I present: the Thievius Raccoonus."

He stared in wonder. He had never held much respect for books, but something about this one was different. He felt it on an almost instinctual level. Maybe it was the obvious reverence his aunt, usually so relaxed, held it with.

To his surprise, she offered it to him. "Go ahead, Billy. Take it. You gotta be real careful with it, y'hear? But it's yours now."

"It's mine? For keeps?"

"'Til the next Cooper needs it," she smiled. "I got it when I was your age. Now I'm passin' it on. You'll do the same, I hope. 'Course, your father didn't want you to even hear about it. He's a stubborn, idiotic wet blanket without the faintest sense of family tradition, bless his heart. But I talked him 'round in the end. It's yours, for the moment."

He opened it, his small and usually frantic hands moving with uncharacteristic care. The paper was old – ancient – yet oddly sturdy. It opened out on a random page, showing a raccoon in a dark hood leaping through the night sky. The kid had never seen buildings remotely like the ones depicted.

"Study it closely," continued Suzanne. "It's got everything you'll ever need. Tricks, techniques, tactics... all of it worth its weight in gold. There's stuff in there I can't even begin to explain. But it _works_ , Billy. You don't gotta understand it to do it. For our family, it goes beyond understanding. It goes deeper. It works for us. It'll work for you too."

He flicked through the book, almost overwhelmed. Pirates, pharoahs, Arabian nights and armoured knights – every kind of heroic figure he had ever heard stories about, and several he hadn't.

"It's a lot of power, honestly," said Suzanne, her tone growing solemn. "We're not like regular folks. The rules don't apply to us, and that can go to your head easy. Real easy." She lay a hand on her nephew's shoulder. "But I trust you, Billy. I already know that you'll use your skills right – and I know you'll make a damn fine thief."

"Auntie Suzanne, this is incredible!" he said. "This thing's got some amazing pictures!"

A slow, sinking feeling came over Suzanne. "Billy, quick question... can you read?"

He beamed brightly, eyes still on the book. "Nope!"

Suzanne smiled too, but it didn't reach her eyes.

This would take longer than she thought.


	2. 1879

" _Real sorry 'bout the intrusion, folks! I hope me and my pals here haven't upset your travellin' experience too much. Just hand over your spare change and we'll be on our way. A raccoon's gotta eat, y'know?"_

_"Hey – **you!** What's the meaning of this?! How did you get on board?"_

_"Heck! You never said there'd be guards on this train, Cooper!"_

_"Yeah! Theys is armed! I ain't stickin' 'round for this!"_

_"Get back here, you scum!"_

_"Ah, leave 'em go, fellas. They ain't worth it. I'm the brains of this here operation. And I'd be much obliged if y'al–_ glurk _"_

_"Shut your mouth, you Yankee hick!"_

_"Gffh... you hit harder than a Scotsman with a shovel, y'know that?"_

* * *

**_1879, Somewhere not in Tennessee_ **

Lord Pemberton sat in his ornate booth, the grandest this dingy American train could offer. The pheasant's feathertips drummed against the ornate golden cigar case on the table as looked out the window.

His eyes narrowed. He found this country ugly. The geography was bad enough, with its endless, worthless plains and jagged, impassable mountains. But the people were even worse.

Speak of the devil. His personal guards were returning.

The booth door slid open. Pemberton gave the bulldog who entered a wan smile. "Hello again, lads. Did you locate the source of the trouble?"

"Aye, sir. The train stopped because of... him."

The second of the two dogs entered. He was holding a scruffy raccoon by the collar of his vest. The raccoon's hands were cuffed behind his back, but under his dented bowler hat he was grinning.

Pemberton regarded the raccoon for a moment. When he said nothing, he turned back to his guard. "What happened?"

"A group of bandits attacked the train. Jumped on board as it went under a bridge. The conductor hit the brakes once he noticed. Mostly they were just rabble, sir, trying to shake down the passengers for petty cash. Ran when they saw us. But this one..." The dog turned to glare at the thief. "He's the ringleader. And he surrendered to us in order to see you."

"I see." Pemberton steepled his fingers. "And do either of you have any idea who this ruffian is?"

"He's a nobody, sir. Some... Tennessee kid."

"But we thought you might want to deal with him personally, sir," said the other guard.

"Hrrm." Pemberton leaned forward, looking over the thief. His mouth curled uncomfortably. "What is your name, wretch?"

The raccoon chuckled. He kept his head down. "Oh, I dunno," he said. His voice was lively. "I think 'Tennessee Kid' has a good ring to it. Y'all can call me that."

Without warning one of the dogs slammed a fist into the raccoon's side. He grunted and fell against the other guard, who shoved him.

"Yes, thank you, Rufus," said Pemberton. "He needs a lesson in manners. Not to mention linguistics... _'Y'all'_. Disgusting. Learn to speak English, you cretin. Now, I'll ask again. What is your _name?_ "

The thief caught his breath. His smile stayed in place. "Well, since _y'all're_ so hell-bent on knowin'... my first name's Billy, not that it matters. It's my family name y'all should be concerned with." He tilted his head up, very slightly, until one eye glinted out from under the brim of his hat. "See... I'm a Cooper."

"Good god, he's getting worse," murmured the pheasant distractedly. "Cooper? Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"It'll mean plenty to ya in a little while, I reckon."

"I doubt it." Pemberton drew himself up. "Well, allow me to explain who _I_ am. I am Lord Pemberton, of Pemberton Manor of Pemberton County, England. Do you know what that means?"

"It means you keep accidentally gettin' the mail fer Lord Plemberton of Plemberton Manor from Plemberton County?" said the raccoon. The dog punched him again, this time in the stomach. He wheezed, but his grin didn't waver.

"It means," spat Pemberton, "that I am an aristocrat. A concept the brainless dirt-farming hicks of Tennessee may be unfamiliar with. It means that I am due a certain amount of respect from the common classes. It _means_ that I do not tolerate disruptions in my busy schedule by worthless, mentally unsound highwaymen!"

For a moment, the thief stayed quiet. Then he laughed. "Yeah. Reckoned as much."

"Excuse me?"

"I may not know too much 'bout English grammar – don't much care to learn, neither – but I got my own area of expertise. Like I said, I'm a Cooper. And that means I'm a thief. A damn good one, too." He grinned. "And I'm here on account a' them diamonds in your jacket pocket."

Pemberton's eyes widened. "Wh-what are you blathering about, peasant?! I don't–"

"Oh, it's simple enough. See, this here worthless, mentally unsound highwayman heard somethin' 'bout a rich English fella headed through this neck of the woods. I'm pretty good at hearin' stuff, y'know."

He twitched his ears to underline his point. It was still early in his life. He didn't have the notch. Not yet.

"This English guy's got a bit of a rep. Kinda like a high-class courier. Moving stuff around for other folks. Bad folks." The raccoon's grin didn't waver, but his tone hardened. "Stuff like a little bag of diamonds, ripped outta the cold hands of a murdered man."

Pemberton glared, perfectly composed. His voice was icy. "You have no proof."

"Neither do the police, to my understandin'." He drew himself up proudly. "That's where I come in. I don't do things 'cause I got proof. I do things 'cause I feel like it. And I feel like robbin' you."

"That kind of idiocy will get you killed."

"I reckon so, yeah," said the raccoon placidly. "But not today. In fact, I'd say things're going my way so far, right? Rustled up a few local boys, told 'em I could help 'em hit the train. Figured a fancy fella like you wouldn't like his travels disturbed. If I surrendered, I'd get to meetcha, so you could give me a lecture in person 'fore you had me shot." He shrugged. "Looks like I was right."

"Yes, true tactical brilliance on your part," drawled Pemberton. "What now, you simpleton?"

"Simple's the word, alright!" he laughed. "My plan's _real_ simple. Now, the previous owner of the diamonds don't have much use for 'em – on account a' the fact he's dead – so I think it'd be fair enough if I just took 'em." His eyes gleamed. "I'm gonna ask just once. Real neighbourly. Hand 'em over peaceful like, and I'll be on my way. No trouble. Otherwise..."

Pemberton scoffed. "Forgive me if I'm not terribly intimidated by a man in handcuffs."

"Handcuffs?" asked Cooper innocently. He brought his hands around, holding the cuffs up. Open. "Y'mean these ones?"

The three Englishmen stared.

Then Rufus reached for his gun, but he was too slow. Cooper whirled around and punched him square in the face, neatly clicking one of the cuffs onto the dog's wrist as he went. Then he turned and headbutted the other guard in the chin, upsetting his balance. The bulldog had managed to draw his gun and it fired into the wall next to Pemberton, who screamed.

Cooper cuffed the dogs to each other. Then – with a movement so quick Pemberton didn't quite understand what happened – he was holding both of their pistols, one in each hand. Whooping with joy, he fired at the window, shattering the glass. Air whipped through the booth. Pemberton's feathers were thoroughly ruffled, in more ways than one.

Cooper aimed the pistols at the guards, grinning wildly. They both stared. "Alright, fellas. Couldja do me a favour and back up a little?" They shuffled backwards, closer to the window. "Little more." Their backs were against the broken glass. "Perfect." Cooper's eyes wandered away. "Hey, what's that?" The dogs looked out the window –

and Cooper slammed his shoulder into Rufus, sending him tumbling out of the train. The other guard got halfway through a yelp before he was dragged out too.

Cooper turned to Pemberton. "Alright, fella. Hand ov–" and Pemberton let out a long, piercing scream and limply threw a small cloth bag onto the table.

Cooper slid one pistol into an empty holster on his leg, keeping the other trained on the pheasant. He opened the bag with his free hand, peeking inside. He smiled widely, jangling it. "Hoo-wee! Prettier than a sky fulla stars, and a damn sight easier to sell." He pocketed the bag. "I'm gonna go ahead and keep these guns, too. I like to collect 'em. Guns are great. You don't mind, do ya?"

"Please don't shoot me," said Pemberton weakly.

"Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say. Oh!" His eyes landed on Pemberton's golden cigar case. "Can I have that too?"

Pemberton nodded. He nodded a lot.

"Great! _Muchas gracias._ " He took a cigar before slipping the box into another pocket. "I'll be on my way, then. I'm sure if you ask the conductor real nice, he can hit the brakes and your two boys can get back on board. Might have a few less teeth, but hey, them's the breaks. Heh. Breaks, brakes. Words."

Pemberton kept nodding. Nodding was safe. He could do little else but nod.

"...Alrighty then!" The raccoon smirked as he set the cigar in place. "Y'know, y'all'd've been a lot better off if ya just listened."

Pemberton stared. "Whuh... _What_ did you just say?"

Cooper rolled his eyes and counted the syllables on his fingers. "Yuh. All. Would. Have. Y'all'd've." He lit the cigar, shaking his head. "Honestly! Learn to speak American."

With that, the Tennessee Kid threw himself out the window.


	3. 1884

_"Bentley, please. You're killing me here."_

_"I appreciate how difficult this is for you, Sly. But I just can't condone this. This plan is already such a strain on the temporal fabric of the universe – we can't afford to take risks like this. We're supposed to be setting history right, not breaking it even more!"_

_"What am I supposed to do?! Just... pretend it's not gonna happen?"_

_"Bluntly, yes. The alternative is just too dangerous."_

_"...I don't like this."_

_"Yeah. That's apparent. ...You know I wouldn't put my foot down unless I really saw no other way."_

_"Yeah. I just..."_

_"I know. But – and forgive me for sounding callous – it's not like you can 'save' them. Their times will come. Their times have all come already, from most academic perspectives of the time stream. Just... try to stay focused."_

_"...Heh. Don't worry, Bentley. You know me. I always have my eyes on the prize."_

* * *

**_1884, Cotton Mouth Bluff_ **

Tennessee sat on top of the clock tower, comfortably perched on the edge of the roof. His rifle sat next to him. It was great to have ol' Blue back.

It was great to have family visiting, too. Even if the circumstances were... odd.

Luckily for Tennessee, he didn't have much anxieties regarding the workings of the space-time continuum. It wasn't exactly something he concerned himself with in daily life. He trusted that his 'nephew' and his pals knew what they were doing; especially since tomorrow they were going to make Toothpick pay. That was the priority. If Bentley told Tennessee to do something, he did it. The fabric of the universe was probably fine.

Instead, Tennessee's attention was focused on the vixen below him. In the yard by the tower, Carmelita was putting herself through some practice drills, ensuring she was prepared for the operation the next day. She leapt and rolled and exploded several targets into smoking fragments with her shock pistol. Tennessee watched, rapt.

Now there was a damn fine lady with a damn fine gun.

A rich voice behind him. "Tennessee. Can we talk?" Tennessee hadn't heard him approach. He was a Cooper, alright, and a damn good one at that.

"Sure, cousin!" Tennessee patted the roof next to him, but didn't turn. "C'mere and sit with me. I'm just watchin' Miss Carmelita do her thing." He shook his head appreciatively as Sly sat. "She's a real firecracker, ain't she?"

"Yeah. She is."

Tennessee broke into a smirk. "I gather you and her have a bit of a history. Care to tell me about it?"

"No," said Sly quickly.

"Ah, c'mon, Sly! There's no need to be embarra..." Tennessee finally looked up to Sly. He trailed off.

In the short time he had known Sly – even when they were breaking out of jail together – there had always been a spark of warm humour in the other raccoon's eyes. It was a major reason Tennessee took a shine to him so quickly, aside from the obvious. Here was a kindred spirit in more ways than one.

That spark was gone.

Tennessee's face fell. "Sly, is somethin' wrong?"

Sly took a breath. "Yeah," he said. "Something is wrong."

He took a moment to look to Carmelita, but she either hadn't noticed their presence or was ignoring them. She was out of ear-shot, anyway.

Sly turned back to Tennessee. "I have something important to tell you, but first... y'know all that stuff Bentley told you about keeping this secret?"

"Yeah, I remember," said Tennessee, a touch defensively. "That you boys are takin' a risk even comin' here, and I'm not to go tellin' anyone about this, on account of the... time... fabric... whatsit." He produced a small cigarette, seemingly from nowhere, and lit it. "Real shame, if you ask me. I ain't got much family left. I'd love to brag to folks 'bout what a swell guy my great-great-grandnephew is."

Sly smiled, perking up slightly. "Thanks, Tennessee. That means a lot, coming from you."

"You're more than welcome!"

"Well, since you mention it, this is about our family. And... why you don't have much left."

Tennessee's eyes narrowed. "Sly," he said slowly, "are you gonna let me in on some forbidden future-knowledge?"

"I know I'm not supposed to. Bentley wouldn't let me tell you." He smiled humourlessly. "So... let's not _tell_ him I told you. Coopers never were ones to follow rules."

"You got that right." Tennessee folded his arms, curious. "Alrighty then. Let's hear it."

Sly nodded. "...I really have to stress that you can't –"

"Good Lord, son, I'm a thief! A loud, dumb thief with a love of explosions, maybe, but a thief anyhow. I _can_ keep a secret."

"Right, sorry."

Tennessee's leg was starting to twitch. "So, what's this all about?"

"Can I see your copy of the Thievius Raccoonus?"

"'Course!" Tennessee's wrist flicked and suddenly he was holding it. He passed it to Sly, who began to skim through it hurriedly.

He opened it out on the first page Tennessee had ever seen; a depiction of Riochi Cooper leaping through the air. Sly stared at their shared ancestor, his eyes distant.

After a moment, Tennessee nudged him. "Sly, I'd be much obliged if you told me your story be _fore_ the sun rose."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Sly pointed to something in the picture. A dark silhouette, barely visible against the night sky. "Have you ever noticed this before?"

"Oh, sure." Tennessee moved his hat to scratch at his forehead. "I, uh... spent a lot of time lookin' at the pictures in this here thing. Noticed that a long time ago. It's all over the book."

"Yeah," said Sly grimly. "He is."

"'He'?" said Tennessee. "I always wondered... So it _is_ a person, huh?"

"No." Tennessee had never heard Sly sound so cold. "Not a person. A monster."

Taking another nervous glance around – Bentley and Murray were nowhere in sight, and Carmelita still hadn't acknowledged them – Sly produced a small photograph and handed it to Tennessee.

Tennessee had to admit his nephew was not being melodramatic. The figure depicted was, in a word, monstrous.

He looked like an owl, but was far, far larger than any bird Tennessee had ever met; or, for that matter, heard of. His eyes were yellow and burned with unfathomable hatred. But that wasn't the scariest part. What really unnerved Tennessee was the most obvious detail.

He stared numbly at the photo. "He's... made'a metal," he said finally.

"Yeah. He is."

"Is he..." Tennessee's voice lowered, mostly from instinct. "...from the future? Like you folks?"

Sly sighed angrily. "I honestly have no idea. He's visible in the Thievius Raccoonus as far back as Slytunkhamen, but his technology is way too advanced for that time. Honestly, it's a little too advanced for _our_ time. We don't know what his deal is. Not really. But we do know that he hates us."

"Us?"

"Us. The Coopers." Sly sagged. "All of us."

Tennessee examined the photo in silence. Finally, he spoke. "Sly. Why are you telling me this?"

Sly shifted uncomfortably. "I guess... I just want you to be prepared. Clockwerk is dangerous. Really dangerous. And I –"

" _Sly._ " Tennessee lowered the photograph and looked his nephew in the eye. He wasn't well-practised when it came to looking serious, but he gave it his best attempt. "Why are you telling me _this?_ "

Sly wilted under his gaze.

Glaring at him was doing no good. Tennessee turned away, talking to the stars instead. "You said you wanted to tell me why there ain't many Coopers around. Then you showed me a picture of a metal monster, and got real insistent that I knew about him. That I was 'prepared'." He rested his head on his fist. "I admit I ain't the smartest guy in the family. Kinda the opposite. But I can put two and two together."

"Tennessee... I'm so sorry."

He scoffed. "For what?"

"...What?"

Tennessee looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. "You do realize I gotta die sometime, right?"

"I know, I know." Sly rubbed his eyes. "That's... what Bentley said."

"Much as I'd like to roll up to your birthday parties when you're a little kid – all rickety and ancient-like – old age ain't something I ever thought about. Matter of fact, I was always pretty sure I was gonna bite it before I got to thirty."

Sly looked up. "Well, I have good news abou–"

Tennessee waved him off. "Pipe down, wouldja? I'd sooner leave it a surprise."

"Sorry. Sorry."

"It's alright." Tennessee took another nervous look at the photograph. Then he looked back to Sly, who was sagging miserably. "Hey. Chin up, cousin. I'm glad you told me."

He blinked. "You are?"

"Sure." He gave him a smile. "Took a lot of guts. Goin' behind your friend's back, and, uh, the universe's back. Or somethin'."

"Thanks. I hate to go against Bentley like this, but..." He shook his head. "I just couldn't waste this opportunity, y'know? I can't enjoy the amazing experience of actually _meeting_ you if Clockwerk is... hanging over us. The way he always does," he muttered.

"Well, you can relax now. You told me. I've been told." Tennessee reached over and squeezed Sly's shoulder. "And you're right. We Coopers do break the rules. 'Cause we're slick enough to get away with it."

Sly smiled. "Yeah. I guess so."

They said nothing for a moment. It was a good kind of quiet – but Tennessee wasn't one for any kind of silence. "Alright!" he said, pulling back. "Let's maybe talk about somethin' else, huh?"

"Good idea." Sly pointed to the photograph in Tennessee's hand. "You can keep that if you want. But you have to be careful with it. Don't let anyone know it exists."

The photo was no longer in Tennessee's hand. It was gone. "No idea what you're talkin' 'bout," he said innocently.

"Perfect."

"Now..." Tennessee leaned back, settling into a more comfortable position. "Why don't you indulge your elder relative and tell me what you did to make Miss Carmelita so ticked off at you?"

"Okay, first off, I'm physically older than you." Sly's smirk made it obvious he was glad to be back to the usual humorous rhythm. "Secondly, I dunno if you want to hear it. That's a _really_ scary story."

"Try me, Junior."


	4. 1899

" _Please. Please. Just... hear me out."_

_"Hear you out?! This is insane! Every part of this is completely loco!"_

_"Hey, I did try to warn ya... Day we first met, as a matter of fact."_

_"This is no time for your jokes, Tenny! Can't you just listen to me for a minute? Why do you have to do this by yourself?"_

_"I wasn't joking. Not then and not now. And, well... 'cause... I'm not s'posed to do it at all, hun. I'm not s'posed to even know about it."_

_"So we're already breaking the rules. Why not go all out?! You know I have your back! Always."_

_"I know. I know. That's why I love you. And... that's why I don't want you there."_

_"Excuse me?!"_

_"Yeah... I knew you wouldn't like hearin' that."_

* * *

**_1899, a desolate corner of Wyoming_ **

Tennessee was as ready as he could be.

His affairs were in order. Nothing outstanding. The Thievius Raccoonus had been passed on long ago to an English cousin of his named Thaddeus. Most importantly, he had made the trip to Kaine Island already. He had faced the trials and, when he succeeded, adorned his own corner of the Cooper Vault with his luckiest hat and his first revolver.

Not ol' Blue, though.

He was going to need ol' Blue.

He sat in the cold, outside what used to be a roadside tavern. A few years ago, the nearby rail route had brought it a decent amount of business. But the trains got rerouted and now there was nothing out here but unused rails. He had spent the better part of the afternoon moving a large segment of rail into place – angled upwards, stacked on sleepers, aimed at the building's attic. It stood there, yet another testament to his odd mind. Then he had dragged out a table and two chairs and a bottle of whiskey. He sat. He was as comfortable as he was about to get.

He was alone. He didn't have to be. He had built up a network of friends and contacts and grateful clients over the years, insofar as someone like him could ever fit inside a 'network'. But he had told none of them about this. Too risky.

The only person he told – he couldn't escape telling her – was his girl. She had listened carefully, accepting the ludicrous truths he produced. But when he told her he meant to do it alone, she was furious.

He knew she would be.

It was the longest, angriest, most painful argument they had ever had – and there were a lot of contenders for that dubious honour. But after hours, Tennessee won a rare victory. It was too dangerous. Too likely _he_ would just kill them both. Tennessee had no choice in facing this, but she could stay safe.

That wasn't good enough for her, of course. But she trusted him. She trusted the way he didn't crack a single joke about it. She trusted the way the playful look in his eyes died as soon as he began his story.

She hated it with every fibre of her being, but she trusted him when he said the smartest thing was to do was to try to keep her very existence a secret.

She was gone now, a first-class passenger on a ship to Ireland. Tennessee took solace in that. In fact, thoughts of his girl were what kept him going. If he lived, he could reunite with her. If he died, she would be so furious at him – at his bone-headed decision to do it by himself – that he would be able to feel it from beyond the grave. Like a haunting in reverse.

Either way. Something.

It was a little bit past midnight when he heard it. From the distance, the sound of huge, metallic wings – getting closer. Tennessee took a breath. Then he took a large swig of whiskey. That was more helpful.

A black silhouette solidified in the sky. To Tennessee, it was all too familiar. He kept his eyes on it, hoping _he_ would be in the mood to talk.

Finally, Clockwerk landed.

Most of his body was robotic, the steely metal glinting ominously in the moonlight. He towered over Tennessee, glaring at him with two hateful, blood red eyes; the only part of him which still seemed to be organic. He radiated malice. Tennessee could almost taste it.

He gripped the whiskey bottle a little tighter. "...You're bigger than I'd thought you'd be."

" **William 'Tennessee Kid' Cooper.** " His voice was powerful and unnatural, and yet, not what Tennessee expected. He drawled the words, almost casual. Bored. " **I'm here to kill you.** "

Tennessee managed a smile. "Is that a fact?"

" **Yes.** "

There was a pause. Tennessee expected Clockwerk to say more, but nothing came.

After a moment, he shrugged. "Well, that's a right shame. But I guess we all gotta go sometime, huh?"

" **I am immortal,** " said Clockwerk. " **My perfection is everlasting.** "

"That's... swell, bud. Say, you musta come a long way. Can I offer you a drink?"

" **No,** " said Clockwerk, but Tennessee was already moving. He offered the whiskey, leaning up to thrust it under Clockwerk's beak. The smell was repulsive.

Clockwerk flicked one of his huge wings, knocking the bottle from Tennessee's grip. It smashed against the ground several feet away. The stench lingered, and he silently deactivated his internal olfactory sensor, a phrase which here means 'cyborg nose'.

Tennessee shrugged, falling back into his seat. "Well, alright. I offered."

Clockwerk glowered at him. " **How were you aware of my arrival?** "

Tennessee lit a cigar. "Funny story, that. See, I got this book fr–"

" **The Thievius Raccoonus. Yes. I am aware. Does it contain information about me? A warning?** "

"I 'spose you could say that." He chewed the end of the cigar. "See, I had that book since 'fore I could read. Spent a lotta time just... lookin' at the pictures. And I couldn't help but notice that there was this... bird thing in a lot of 'em. Meant to ask my Auntie 'bout it." His voice when icy. "...Never did get the chance."

" **Suzanne Belle 'The Runaway' Cooper,** " said Clockwerk, his voice like a death knell. " **Highway bandit, bank robber, sporadic gambler. Averse to water. Specialities included marksmanship, lockpicking, and precisely-aimed demolitions. Repeatedly stole war supplies from Confederate forces during the American Civil War. Noted affinity for helping Native tribes.** " His eyes narrowed very slightly. " **Status: deceased.** "

"Yeah." Tennessee's fist clenched. "That's her."

" **I killed her.** " It was a mundane statement of fact. Barely noteworthy. " **She died, screaming in agony, in the wilderness of Louisiana. Her attempts to fight me were pathetic, and ultimately as futile as every other Cooper I have killed. You will be no exception.** "

Tennessee said nothing. He took a long, slow drag of the cigar.

" **I am perfection itself, given living form. All who oppose me have been destroyed. There is no escape; I will never tire of eradicating your inferior bloodline. Surrender now, and I'll consider slitting your throat quickly. Show me the arrogance I have come to expect from your ilk, and I will inflict on you a brutal demise, as befitting the insignificant insect you are.** "

Tennessee kept quiet. Then he opened his mouth – and blew a smoke ring. He watched it drift through the cold night air for a few moments before glancing back to Clockwerk. "Sorry, I zoned out. You say somethin'?"

Clockwerk glared. " **No Cooper can possibly match my limitless intellect,** " he intoned. " **Still, I feel this may need to be explicitly stated: you are _significantly_ stupider than average.** "

Tennessee stretched his arms. "Is that so?"

" **Yes,** " said Clockwerk. " **Many of your insipid relatives show at least some proficiency in one or more intellectual arenas. However, you have no such competencies. Your body of work is erratic and... unrefined. I would postulate this is due to an undiagnosed mental disorder.** " He paused. " **Or several.** "

"Listen to all them ten dollar words," said Tennessee placidly. " _Somebody_ went to owl college."

" **Enough,** " spat Clockwerk. " **Your time has come, Cooper. I tire of this fooli–** "

Yeah. Probably time to start.

Under the table, Tennessee's foot flicked, kicking his rifle upwards into his hands. In an instant, time slowed down. Every fraction of a second counted. But all he had to do was hit two targets. Big and red – almost too easy.

Two bullets fired.

Clockwerk roared in pain.

He lashed out with his wings, but Tennessee dodged. Wasn't hard. The owl's eyes were destroyed. He was blind.

He was far from harmless, though.

Clockwerk stomped forward, crushing the table under his unnatural weight. He took a moment to compose himself. It had been many years since he had felt this much physical pain – it caught him by surprise, that was all. He was immortal. He was perfect.

Clockwerk lifted his head, a heady mixture of blood and oil running down his face. He listened.

He heard Tennessee. His footfalls as he ran. The small but definite sound of metal on metal as he hurried to reload his rifle.

The raccoon was much too loud.

His wings flicked and then he was moving, closing in on Tennessee's position with vicious speed.

He heard six gunshots and felt six bullets bouncing off his perfect metal frame. Six wasted shots. His prey had gotten lucky, but it was a fluke. He was perfect. He was immortal.

Clockwerk closed in and his talons sliced through the night air – but missed. Tennessee slipped under him, shoving bullets back into his gun more out of habit than anything else. He had to keep moving. Clockwerk whirled around and struck again and, with a fluid motion, Tennessee threw himself over the claws and hit the ground and sprinted. He had to get to the tavern.

The length of rail stood ready. It was only a few meters ahead.

He just had to get to it.

Clockwerk kept moving, kept striking, kept roaring – but Tennessee was fast, smart, canny. He dodged and rolled and leapt, keeping the deadly talons at a distance. But it was hard. It took every ounce of his skill to stay alive.

God, how _exciting!_

Finally he got to the rail. He fired a few shots at Clockwerk for the fraction of a second it might buy him, then jumped on backwards, facing his foe. He slid up it, the same way he slid along thousands of rails over the years. He still didn't understand how he did it, exactly, and he was the one who invented the damn technique. But he didn't need to understand it. It went beyond understanding.

He flew up the rail and straight for the window to the tavern's attic, which he had already opened well in advan–

As the glass shattered around Tennessee's speeding body he noticed he had apparently forgotten to open the window.

He rolled along the floor, gritting his teeth. Whoops. At least all the other preparations were in place.

Right?

...If he had forgotten the window, what else had slipped his mind?

" _Too late now!_ " said a chipper voice in his head. " _May as well keep on keepin' on, 'specially considerin' how you're gonna die anyhow!_ " Tennessee managed a smile. It was definitely one of the more helpful voices.

He had just dragged himself to his feet when the wall exploded into splinters around Clockwerk.

Tennessee fired, already moving. He leapt for the nearby staircase and slid down the bannister, into the tavern proper. Clockwerk followed him, crashing through the building like it was nothing. To him it _was_ nothing.

Tennessee landed in the centre of the tavern, in the area he had left clear. Not too much room to manoeuvre. He had to be careful.

Clockwerk dominated the space.

Although it was against everything he stood for, Tennessee gave up trying to shoot him. It just wasn't working. He had to focus all his energy on dodging.

It wasn't enough.

Clockwerk was unnervingly accurate; he didn't need sight. He knew Tennessee's movements from hearing alone. The owl feinted to the left but struck suddenly with his right. The claws found their mark. Tennessee couldn't hold back a yell of pain as they tasted flesh.

He fell back, instinctively bringing a hand to the cut. His shirt was sliced open. Blood spilled. A lot of it.

"Awh, _hell_..." He managed a ragged smile. "And this was my favourite outfit..."

" **Joke while you can,** " said Clockwerk. He struck again.

Tennessee dodged back, but his wound slowed him. He got himself clear – but the talons sliced clean through his rifle.

His eyes widened as he watched ol' Blue was struck down in an instant. Dead.

Roaring – feeling hot tears in his eyes – he threw down her corpse and drew the two pistols he'd strapped to his back. He opened fire, emptying both clips. Most of the bullets bounced off – but one connected to the sparkling, seeping socket where Clockwerk's left eye had been.

He struck a nerve.

Clockwerk shrieked. As before, he swung his wings wildly – but this time they connected. The massive metal monster hit Tennessee square in the chest. He felt the breath leave his lungs. He felt the guns leave his grip. He felt the anger leave his body.

As he flew backwards, he had an oddly slow moment of clarity. It was over. He had to end it now.

This thought was underlined by how he slammed into one of the barrels. It wobbled precariously, but didn't blow. They couldn't fight here for long. He was lucky a stray bullet hadn't ended it all already.

He winced as he dragged himself to his feet. "Alright, mister. I give. You got me." Tennessee kept his hand pressed to his injury. His body was shivering. He was cold.

" **It's like I said,** " spat Clockwerk. " **Your resistance merely delayed the inevitable.** "

"Boy howdy, you sure got that right." Tennessee's shaking hand went to his pocket, and he produced a matchbook and a cigar. "Y'mind if I indulge myself in one last cigar? I'd be much obliged if you'd give me–"

" **No,** " said Clockwerk, and lunged.

Tennessee slipped under him – holding up the match and lighting it against Clockwerk's underside. "Might go ahead anyhow," he said, calmly lighting the cigar. "I'm a big fan of the smell."

Something in the raccoon's tone gave Clockwerk pause. He reactivated his olfactory sensor. The first thing he picked out was Tennessee's wounds. Raccoon blood was a scent he was more than familiar with.

But there was something else, too. Something powdery.

… Explosives.

The tavern was packed, floor to ceiling and wall to wall, with explosives.

" **Huh,** " said Clockwerk.

"See you in hell, big fella!" said Tennessee with a bright smile.

He flicked the lit match into the nearest barrel of TNT.

It took about six seconds for the explosion to go off. In that time, Clockwerk let out a robotic screech of rage and leapt forward, his talons unfurled, lunging for where he last heard Tennessee's voice.

Then the barrel exploded. Then the barrel next to it exploded.

Then the tavern exploded.

The noise echoed through the empty valley, an atrocious roar no-one else was around to hear. The windows shattered, followed by the old wood of the walls and roof. The tavern collapsed in on itself, hungry flames eagerly feasting on the carcass.

In the aftermath of the explosion, sound faded. The booming echoed, ever fainter, until there was nothing in the air but cinders and dust. The remains of the tavern lay inert.

All was still.

Then, abruptly, a huge figure rose out of the wreckage, great and terrible. There wasn't a single blemish on the shining metal.

Clockwerk shook some burning wood off his wings. " **Hmm. Suppose you weren't quite as stupid as you looked. Although that's not saying much...** "

He headed out of the rubble, wading through the flaming debris. He curved a wingtip toward his beak and spoke.

" **Log: William 'Tennessee Kid' Cooper has been eliminated. Relatively certain of target's demise; probability calculated to ninety three point six percent. I can taste his blood in the air... Battle performance was subpar. Organic eyes have been destroyed, and I am currently completely blind.** " He spoke with his usual bland intonation, as though having both of his eyes shot out was, at most, mildly inconvenient. " **Must complete work on cybernetic replacements asap. I can finish the hypnotic capabilities once I've regained my sight. Note: Target implied previous Coopers somehow managed to warn of my existence in the Thievius Raccoonus. However, available data suggests this warning is ineffective and therefore of no real concern. Now commencing post-battle surveillance to ensure death of target.** "

Clockwerk turned back toward the wreckage of the tavern, stood still, and listened.

For nine days.

And eight and a half hours.

* * *

By all accounts, the Tennessee Kid died that night. No-one could deny that.

Not even the man himself.

Every part of this plan was an uphill battle. The preparation was back-breaking work. Arguing with his girl had been hell. The fight had been a living nightmare. And his injuries stung worse than a scorpion with a wasp's nest in its tail.

But sitting still in the basement for that long was the hardest part.

Once he patched his wounds, there was nothing to do. Nothing to focus on. Nothing to do. Nothing. Just darkness. Boring, crushing darkness. Boring darkness. Nothing to do. Nothing!

At points he was convinced he was wasting his time; that he survived the fight of his life only to starve to death in the dark, hiding from something that wasn't even there. Nothing to do. But his food stockpiles held out.

After nine days – nine days nothing to do – he heard it. The huge wings began to beat.

And grew distant.

His heart leapt, but he waited another day to be safe. Even though there was nothing to do. Then he emerged, squinting, into the light.

He was done. It was over.

Yes sir, the Tennessee Kid was certainly dead.

William Cooper didn't seem to fare much better.

But a raccoon with lively brown eyes and a notch in one ear was soon on a cruise ship to bound for Galway, standing on the bow and dreaming of his girl. His papers said 'Dennis Kidman'. He had paid in cash.

He had a lot of cash. Plenty to retire on.

The idea of it was strange to him. To just... not steal things. For years. Until he got fat and died of old age. It wasn't something he had ever considered.

But he didn't know much of anything, did he? His girl had suggested it. More than that, she had sold him on the idea.

And he liked to think he knew a good idea when he saw one.


End file.
